My Heart's On Fire
by piratesails
Summary: Having a new job is hard as it is, and now Professor Emma Swan has the added disadvantage of dealing with the jerk barista that never spells her name right. CS Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

**"You're my jerk barista who purposely screws up my name when I order my caffeine fix AU"  
This was prompt given to me over on tumblr that I adored far too much and have now decided to turn into a multichapter woops. I don't think it'll be too long, but I'm terribly indecisive so let's see where this goes. Leave me a review with your thoughts!**

* * *

 **chapter one**

She stares at the cup in her hand, long and hard - the edges of the letters beginning to blur, and she wonders if the guy behind the counter is just plain deaf. This is the seventh time he's gotten her name wrong, the fifth time she's kept her frustration about it at bay, because even _she_ knows how ridiculous it would be to barrel through the campus coffee shop, fist a hand into the collar of his freshly pressed button up and force him to spell out her name correctly.

But that doesn't mean she's ruled out the option just yet.

She guesses all her foster care workers must have been on to something with the whole _prone to violent tendencies_ thing.

It's only been a bit over two weeks since she's started here, still hauling around files and papers in an uncoordinated manner while she attempts to map out the university campus in her head. When she'd been offered the job to teach Psychology at Misthaven University, she'd jumped at the chance, ready and willing for a fresh start.

She finds the building beautiful, designed in Victorian styled architecture and blanketed with a lingering scent of old books; the overzealous and extremely friendly staff is an aspect she's attempting to settle into, but she's managed to garner a few close acquaintances already; her students, of varying ages and differing backgrounds, all seem to have an enthusiasm to learn.

Yes, so far everything has been smoothing out perfectly.

Except the pain in the ass of a barista she has managed to encounter for the last five days straight.

The first time she'd walked into the campus coffee shop (a quaint thing with mostly wooden surfaces and picturesque landscape paintings of the oceans on the walls coupled with glass doors, soft music and the rich aroma of coffee beans and fresh bread), it had been her first day and she'd been teetering on the edge of indecision, wondering if she'd made the right choice by moving here. He'd shot her a grin - she'd quickly chalked up the flutter of her stomach to the anxiety pooling up insider her - and handed her the espresso she'd ordered without a single word, a neatly curled up _"You'll do stunningly"_ written on its cardboard sleeve.

She hadn't even looked back while rushing out of the coffee shop, too taken aback by his ability to read her stressed state. And if she'd smiled all through her first class of her new job because of it, well, that was her business.

The last few days, however, he had proved to be more irritating than anything else. She doesn't know why it bothers her so much; perhaps it's the years of being unrecognised in between group homes and families unwilling to adopt her, or perhaps it's the need for recognition from him. (She demolishes the latter thought immediately.)

But it isn't just his inability to acknowledge the simple four letter name, it's also his unabashed flirting - an infuriating Irish lilt to his voice that he purposely deepens when doing so - and lopsided smirks that make her blood curl.

Today he'd thrown her a wink as she'd picked up her cup - the jerk knows her name but refuses to get it right because he's just that annoying.

(He takes to calling her _love_ or _darling_ or _sweetheart_ \- if she's lucky, _Professor_ , and on the odd morning, _Swan_.)

(Not that she's paying attention.)

She huffs out a breath, resigning herself to her shared office - she has an hour before her first class begins and she's not going to spend it thinking about one Killian Jones and his irritatingly clear blue eyes.

"So what is it this time?" Ruby's perched atop Graham's desk with a book in her hand and a grin on her face when Emma enters the office.

"My bet's on _Emily_ ," Graham chimes in from his place on the desk chair. Emma narrows her eyes at them, scoffs when she notices the pair biting their cheeks in an attempt to refrain from laughing.

They're both Anthropology professors, and consequently have been dating since Graham started teaching at Misthaven two years ago. Even though it's only been two weeks, she's formed a close bond with both of them, which is why she doesn't find it _too_ unsettling when they tease her about Killian. Besides, it's not like they're right, so it doesn't matter anyway.

She sighs as she slumps down on her desk and takes a long sip of her coffee. She looks back to Ruby's eyebrows raised in anticipation. Another sigh, "You're close Humbert, it's _Emilia_."

That's all it takes for them to burst out into laughter - Emma drops her head back to face the ceiling and mumbles an incoherent prayer to any deity that's willing to listen to give her strength to deal with the both of them and their roaring, animal-like laughter.

"You know," Ruby hums and walks over to pick up Emma's cup and examine it after she's overcome her stroke of laughter, "it's like preschool. The whole pulling on your pigtails to tell you they like you."

"She's right, Emma," Graham's smirk is lined with acknowledgment and a sense of knowing that Emma doesn't want to examine. "Killian is the type of guy to do such a thing."

She all but slams her stack of papers on her desk, releasing a heavy breath. "We are _not_ discussing this, I have work to finish before my class starts."

She's more than relieved that they understand her blatant dismissal and leave her alone for the next hour.

* * *

The thing about Emma Swan is that he's never seen anyone quite like her. Glowing blonde hair, piercing green eyes, a fire laced into every action directly juxtaposed with a gentleness sewed into her very being.

Or, maybe that's just the romantic English major in him spouting nonsense.

He does know for sure that he likes pushing her buttons, likes the way she rolls her eyes when he swipes his tongue across his lower lip, likes how even though he's only seen her a handful of times, he knows what to expect from her.

The indignant huff she releases whenever she reads the name he scribbles on her coffee cup sleeve is something he's started to look forward to. (It was _Emilia_ yesterday, _Eleanor_ before that, and an _Evangeline_ somewhere in between; he's on the verge of bookmarking that _"Names that begin with E"_ site he's opened all too frequently on his phone in the past two weeks.)

He's glad that there's only one coffee shop on campus, resigning her to the fate of seeing him nearly every day. She could always get her morning fix from any store off campus, but it's not as convenient, and, well, he's a hopeful man.

The coffee shop was his brother's idea, a business venture that started off as a joke but transformed into something else entirely. And from a small-time book editor in Ireland, he'd ended up co-owning and running _Cup O' Jones_. (Sometimes he still cringes at the name, but it is theirs, and it is good so it doesn't matter too much.) They'd had it for close to five years now, and Liam had only recently expanded the business to other campuses, leaving Misthaven's cafe in Killian's hands while he divided his time between three different states in order to make sure the setup and initial running started up without a hitch.

For a long time, his brother was all he had but once he'd started working at Misthaven, he'd become close mates with some of the professors (it helps that some of them, like Professor Humbert, are from his side of the pond) and other campus shop runners, even had a pleasant few run-ins with the dean, Regina Mills. Which is how he knew that there was meant to be a new professor of Psychology joining the faculty, but nothing, he's sure, had prepared him for Emma.

Just as he's settling a particularly frazzled third year's tab, cafe already filled for the evening as students settle to study or relax for the day, he spots her. She shoves through the front door, a grimace marring her features and he's overcome with the desire to wipe it away, to make her laugh. He realizes he's only ever heard her laugh once, a bubbly, beautiful thing, and even that wasn't directed towards him.

It's not like her to walk in any time but in the mornings, but he takes it as a brilliant gift from the Gods.

"Large espresso," her voice is tired and she pays him no mind.

He figures she doesn't even realize it's him serving her because when he says, "The usual, then," her head jolts up from where she's toying with her phone.

"Are you always here?" It's a whine, really, there's no other way he could describe it.

He chuckles, "I have to be, don't want to miss having a run in with you, now do I?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just get me my coffee."

He picks up a cup, scribbles her order on to it and hands it to Ariel, one of the students that work alongside him - Liam had hired a few new employees from the student body for the year before he'd left, telling Killian he didn't trust him to employ anyone but "lasses who flutter their eyelashes at his every word." His brother is, to put it lightly, a git.

"Long day?"

"Not in the mood for your idiocy, Jones."

He braces his forearms on the counter and leans towards her while she fishes out her wallet to pay him, frustration evident in her jerky movements. She seems out of place in between the serene atmosphere of the shop (the evenings always do have a more comfortable vibe) - her demeanor doing little to compliment the soft indie tune playing from the speakers (the music was his idea, but he lets his employees pick the mixes because it's much more fun that way) - but he can't help but want her there regardless. She's throwing it all off balance and he can't say he minds one bit.

He can see the creases across her forehead, a set scowl that's deeper than her usual thin-lipped expression or sarcastic smile. He wants to reach out and run his fingers across the frown lines until they disappear, wants to make her smile, to do anything in order to take away whatever pain is settling within her.

"I'd hardly call it idiocy, it's merely pleasant conversation."

"Our definitions of the word _pleasant_ must vary greatly."

He can't help the laughter that escapes his lips, and she slowly raises her eyes to meet his. "I have to say, I'm a bit jealous."

She knits her eyebrows together in slight confusion and _dear Gods_ , she's adorable.

"What I mean," he smiles, "is that I trusted it to be my job to get on your nerves, Professor. Whoever has managed to irk you will be receiving a talking to on my behalf on the propriety of keeping within their job description."

He swears he sees her lips twitch up for a few seconds in a genuine smile, until they're set back in a line. Well, he muses, at least it's better than the scowl.

"You can't claim monopoly on my sour moods, you know."

"Oh, love," he pushes back off the counter and lays his right hand across his heart dramatically, "a man can dream."

She twists her lips to the side and he can tell she's trying not to smile. He'll note that down as a point in his favour; it's about the little victories, after all. Her eyes dart between his and he feels his breath catch in his throat at how magnificently _green_ they are. He's sure he'd be content standing here for all eternity, locking eyes with this siren of a woman, gentle music filling the silence between their intense gazes.

The moment between them is broken when Ariel coughs softly behind him. He turns hesitantly and walks back towards her, taking the cup she's holding out to him. He grabs a sleeve and reaches for the Sharpie in his back pocket, uncapping it with his teeth. He can feel her eyes on the back of his head as he scribbles out a small _"Emma, trust me to be your backup when you beat up whoever has put you in a poor mood. You probably won't require my assistance, but just in case you do;"_ He pauses slightly before throwing caution to the wind and scribbling down his number below his paragraph.

He grabs a double chocolate chip muffin off the rack and places it in a bag before putting down both items on the counter in front of her.

"On the house," he winks at her and waves her off before she can pass him the notes in her hand. She eyes him warily for a few beats and it causes him to grin and shake his head slightly. "Come now, Swan, take them. You're holding up the line."

She swivels her head back and when she finds two students standing behind her, a hint of red crawls on to the apples of her cheeks and he's sure it'll be the death of him. She gives him a small nod and before he knows it, she's already trudging across the path outside the shop. He thinks he sees her smiling, but he can't be all too sure.

It isn't until he closes down for the night that he checks his phone, finding the usual end of the day report text from Liam. But what catches his attention is the other text waiting for him from an unknown number.

 _Interesting offer but I can take care of myself. Although, if you're willing to part with more of those muffins, I might reconsider reporting you in for harassment._

The text causes him to blink at the screen multiple times before he gets his wits about him and his face breaks out into a goofy grin. A spitfire is what she is, this Emma Swan. The little flicker of hope that tingles at the base of his stomach is a welcome addition to his current tirade of feelings.

She'll come around; it's all about the little victories, after all. And, he's nothing if not a patient man.


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys have been so kind with your reviews, follows and favourites! Here's the second chapter, drop a review if you've got the time!**

* * *

 **chapter two**

She's in the middle of correcting a 12 page paper on Attachment Theory, her sixth paper of the day, when she becomes undeniably certain of the fact that she shouldn't have opened that bottle of wine an hour ago - especially considering she's nearly finished more than half of it already and the sentences on the page are all beginning to sound one in the same. She heaves out a deep sigh into her wine glass as she considers how easily half of the theories in the syllabus can be applied to her; evidently, it's kind of ironic, but it's conclusively her fault she opted to dive into Social Psychology.

(She isn't proud to admit that she'd cried more than a handful of times while working on her first research paper over the years - some of those topics had just hit too close to home.)

A break is what she needs, and at this moment, she's glad for Elsa, her assistant professor, who'd opted to take over half the workload for the weekend. She puts down the paper on the coffee table in front of her and settles back into the couch, turning her head slightly to the left towards the window and reveling in the surreal hues of pinks and yellows and blues that paint the approaching dusk.

Emma had found the apartment barely a day prior to her move, stumbling upon a listing on a site she'd sworn she'd visited at least twenty or so times - it was pure luck, in her opinion, because otherwise she'd have to settle into a motel that was at least a half hour drive from campus. This place is an easy fifteen minute walk from Misthaven, something she'd never thought she'd find. Though, in her first week, she'd found that most of the other tenants were either graduate students who split their time between work and research, or undergrads that had large trust funds. Besides the few drinks she's shared with Ruby and Graham after work, it's safe to say she doesn't exactly have a booming social life here.

Her phone chimes from its place on the couch cushion beside her, breaking her away from her thoughts. She swipes the screen to read the text - if you asked her about it later, she'd adamantly deny the smile that blossomed on her face at seeing his name pop up on the screen.

 _Stop working for a minute and watch the sky, Swan. 'Tis a magical sight you don't witness often in Storybrooke._

Well, she doesn't have a booming social life, but she does have Killian Jones.

The reason she'd texted him the first time, after she'd seen he'd scribbled his number across the coffee cup sleeve, was something she didn't want to divulge herself in. He'd made her smile on one of her worst days (really, the dean had been at her throat about " _classroom etiquettes"_ and " _upholding_ _the standards of Misthaven_ , _"_ one of her students had started a heated debate that had sent the class into a frenzy she couldn't control, she was exhausted, mulling over just _leaving_ , had a research paper to continue that she was sure she was getting nowhere with, and overall, she'd just felt so _useless_ ), had left her skin tingling without even touching her, and somehow he'd ended up becoming her sort-of friend.

She had less than reluctantly turned into a frequent customer of his cafe ever since. But she'd never tell him that.

(She had felt so stupid when she realised he owned it - never putting two and two together, always too busy bracing herself for another flirty line from him to notice he shared a last name with the shop's. He'd laughed at her then, chiming in a "Aren't you Psychology majors meant to be observant?" over the rim of his coffee mug as he sat across from her and she grumbled as she marked her papers.)

Her phone chimes again in her hand.

 _Then again, ever since you stepped foot in my shop, I've been witnessing a magical sight nearly every day._

A sort-of friend that has a stupid habit of flirting with her whenever he gets the chance.

 ** _You're ruining this amazing sunset by being insufferable._**

 _I am doing no such thing. In fact, I bet you wish I was there to view it with you._

(He's right, but she'll never admit it.) She scoffs, _the bastard,_ she's become so accustomed to his flirting that she can imagine his smug grin against his stubble.

 ** _In your dreams, Jones._**

 _Oh, Swan, you've no idea_.

She rolls her eyes and tosses the phone back on top of the couch cushions with a smile, opting to watch the last bits of the sunlight dip down into the horizon before sighing and turning her attention back to the papers in front of her.

* * *

Every time she perches herself on the soft cushion sofa jutted comfortably in the corner of the cafe, lined directly with the glass wall, he is overcome with the restless desire to storm up to her and kiss her senseless. And today is no different.

It's a Saturday so she's in a pair of light blue faded jeans, and a cream coloured sweater, hair made into an intricate braid that's falling down over one shoulder - she looks as though she _belongs_. He wants her to stay here, nestled in between the four walls of the cafe that he's come to identify as home. He knows he can't make her, but, as he's said several times before, a man can dream. Until then, he'll settle for the routine they seem to have fallen into of sitting opposite each other every weekend (or alternate weekend, if she's busy), and sharing bits of their week and revelling in small talk that, sure, he's happy with, but wouldn't mind trading for actually getting to know her.

Killian nudges Ariel to let her know he's going on his break and she tosses him a knowing smile that he tries not to blush under. She'd called him out on his admiration for Emma when she'd found him in the supply room, head bent over his phone and face practically split in two with a grin. He was yet to even inform Liam of his new friend - she was his _friend_ , he knew that's what she thought of them - and he'd rather not have his employees darting to his brother with information on his (possible) love life before he even has the chance to process it all.

He sighs heavily. His non-existent love life is not a topic he wants to internally mull over right now. He goes to prepare her a drink (she'd recently taken up indecision when it came to her drink orders and settled on a "surprise me"; she's yet to take that back and he thinks he'll happily prepare every drink known to mankind for her if it came down to it). It's a particularly chilly mid-Autumn morning, so he settles on making a Cinnamon Mocha and reheating a slice of freshly baked apple pie before venturing with the items towards her.

"Good morning, Swan."

She smiles up at him from the paperback she's reading and he's certain his heart halts in his chest.

"Morning," she replies as he places the tray on the table and plops down on the seat opposite hers.

"No assignments today?"

"Nope, all done for the weekend," she states a tad proudly, picking up her drink and taking a tentative sip from it. She smacks her lips together once and turns to him with a curious gaze, "Cinnamon?"

"Right on the dot, love."

She shrugs with one shoulder - a stray curl falls out from her braid and he wants to reach out and twirl it between his fingers - and hums teasingly, "It's alright. Most of the stores do cinnamon in Autumn, so, kind of predictable."

"Bloody ' _alright_ ,' I'll have you know that the drinks I make are far better than whatever overpriced chain store nonsense you're referring to," he huffs. It earns him a small smirk from her, and it's not one of her casual smiles that he's become so fond of but it's close, and he wouldn't trade it for anything.

She picks at the apple pie, ever so often humming in delight at the taste of it, while he asks her about the book she's reading. "I got it from Ruby, it's something about fairytale characters with a modern twist. Honestly, anything's better than another one of my student's papers."

"And here I thought you finally ventured out of your apartment to procure the novel from the local bookstore," he smirks as he successfully steals a forkful of apple pie off her plate.

She replies with an unamused groan and tips the mug into her mouth again. Once she sets it down, she mumbles, not meeting his eyes, "I've been busy."

And he doesn't know what it is about that simple statement, but it seems so _sad_. (And he's obviously already made it his mission to keep her happy, so the underlying melancholy makes his stomach turn uneasily.) He's going to take matters into his own hands, he decides. As a friend, of course. He playfully slams the palm of his hand against the top of the table, making her look up at him as he lets a smile play across his lips.

"That's it, Swan, we need to take you," he points a finger at her, almost touching it to the tip of her nose, "out on an adventure."

He watches as she narrows her eyes at him, either in confusion or distrust, he isn't sure, but all he knows is that there's nothing else he'd rather do than take a trip into town with Emma Swan by his side.

* * *

It isn't that she doesn't want to get out of her apartment more often; she does. She's just busy. With work, and her research paper, and she's never exactly been one to parade around streets hunting down bookstores recommended to her by suave yet cocky baristas.

The again, who is she kidding? The real reason holding her back is the fact that Emma Swan has never favoured attachment. The entire notion of sinking her feet into the cement of one place is terrifying. She thinks back to the group homes and the families that almost-but-not-quite adopted her whenever she has an urge to actually become a part of the city she's in.

She's not imposed to exploring, she just doesn't want to be in that inevitable position where she associates bad memories with good places (she has too many of those thoughts when it comes to Boston; and don't even mention Tallahassee).

It's just in her nature to retaliate, to lure herself away from the concept of getting too close too fast. But as she looks over at Killian, dressed in that damn black polo that brings out his eyes with a dark leather jacket thrown on, while he details the "must see" attractions as they drive into town in his black sedan, she reminds herself that moving here was supposed to be a fresh start, an opportunity to reinvent herself in some way. She's been trapped in a loop of a life for far too long and Killian, currently excitedly listing off the best places to eat ( _he's such a dork, sometimes_ ), is giving her an opportunity to break out of it. Sure, Ruby's tried to drag her along for a drink with her and Graham more often than not, and she's almost given in once or twice before overthinking the whole thing, getting out of the plan by making up work related excuses. The farthest she's gotten from her apartment is to Ruby and Graham's apartment, which is a bit farther off from the campus than hers is.

She does _not_ want to think about why she let Killian grab her hand after she'd finished her drink to pull her up off the table (mid-protest, might she add) and lead her to his car, while she never let either Ruby or Graham even get close to doing the same.

In the 45-minute drive into town, amidst the easy conversation and fighting over which one of them has sole power over choosing the radio station, Emma notes that Storybrooke is rather aptly sized as opposed to it being called a "small town" in the multiple articles she'd read about it online. It's got several streets branching out from one main road, a scattering of shops and houses all surrounded by a lush green of the forest that lays on the outskirts of the main town. Still, she has no doubt that everything would be within walking distance - it wasn't _that_ big. And the way that Killian nods a cheerful hello to a handful of people during the walk from his car to the entrance of the bookstore tells her that either it is quaint enough here that everyone knows each other, or the man is one popular resident.

He holds the door open for her with a mock bow, and she scoffs as she enters _The Dusty Jacket_. When Killian had mentioned the store to her a week or so ago, she hadn't really thought much about it, chalking it up as one of those usual simple bookstores she's so accustomed to visiting. But her eyes grow wide as she takes in the gorgeous display before her; the meticulous arrangement of wooden furniture, the bookshelves that climb to the ceiling housing a colourful array of literature, a warm aroma of old paper and new carpeting complimenting the glistening sunlight from the window seat piled with cushions on the far left. It's something homely. And she hasn't known homely all too well in her life.

"Belle!" She turns her head at Killian's voice, greeting a petite brunette that's just walked in from the back room. He walks up to her and reaches over to press a kiss on her cheek, "How have you been doing, lass?"

"I've been great," she smiles up at him and Emma, for the life of her, wishes her stomach wasn't turning at the pleasant sight the two make. "But I'm upset with you, you should be visiting more often."

She watches as Killian throws his head back in a groan, "I do have a business to run, you know. But I apologise, I know you miss me whenever I'm not around."

She rolls her light blue eyes at him, and then her attention darts to Emma, suddenly noticing that the two of them aren't the only ones in the shop. "Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm Belle French, I work here," she walks up to Emma in her towering heels and extends her a hand to shake, voice warm and with a hint of an accent - Australian, she thinks.

"Emma Swan," is all she offers when she takes her hand, a forced smile on her lips.

"Emma hasn't seen Storybrooke yet so I figured I'd show her around," Killian walks up to stand beside her and she notes as Belle's eyes dart between them before she smiles again, telling them to browse the store as they please.

She runs her finger along the spines of a few first editions, noting their mint condition, her stomach still uneasy. Killian's holding a hardcover in his hand, silently standing behind her when she decides to break the silence. "So, you're friends with Belle?"

She's not jealous. That would be ridiculous.

"Hm? Oh, aye, known her since we moved here."

She picks up a novel at random, trying to look busy, "Ah."

When she turns to face him it's to a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin she can't quite place, "Her and my brother have been sort of seeing each other for a while. In fact, they have me to thank for that."

And just like that, she feels like the worst person in the world. She gives him a barely-there nod before quickly glancing back at the blurb on the book in an attempt to hide the flush that no doubt is crawling up her neck. He plucks the book from her hands and places another one in its place with a chuckle. It has something to do with pirates, princesses, and forbidden love; cliché as they come, and yet she finds herself opening the first page and scanning her eyes over the words.

She hears a worn out _thump_ and notices from the corner of her eye that he's slumped down on a small, rustic couch tracing his fingers over the embossed title on the ancient tome in his hand - Tolstoy, she makes out. She faces him completely as he begins speaking in a soft tone. "Belle, she's like family," his fingers scratch absentmindedly behind his ear, eyes remaining trained down, "I don't have very much of those."

It's a strange feeling, recognizing a lost soul. Her eyes dart over his figure, leaning on the sofa arm as his mussed hair flops into his eyes - terrifyingly attractive, but a hint of sadness in all of that exceeding bravado. And true to the pattern she's come to adapt with him, she braves her way to perch down on the other seat of the sofa, her knee inches away from touching his, and doesn't think about it. About how _easy_ he seems to make it, how familiar everything seems with him.

"Yeah," she offers, not out of pity or to sympathize, but because there's some kind of bond that people like them share and for now she doesn't want to think about the consequences, "me neither."


End file.
